


In Over Our Heads

by evila_elf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evila_elf/pseuds/evila_elf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have been kidnapped. Will they be able to keep their heads above water? Literally?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock woke when he rolled over and inhaled a mouthful of water. He opened his eyes and sat up, coughing and sputtering until he could breathe again. He blinked, trying to remember what events had brought him there, sitting in close to a foot of water, but there was an uncomfortable blank spot in his memory. His head throbbed and his upper arm itched. He removed his coat, already waterlogged and uncomfortable, and looked at his arm. A tiny bead of dried blood confirmed that he had been drugged. _Not again_ , he thought with a sigh. 

He stood, his back stiff from lying on the cold concrete, and looked around. He appeared to be in some sort of glass tank. It was dark outside the tank, preventing him from seeing more than a barely-there concave reflection of himself looking back. The only source of light was directly overhead. The sides of the tank stretched upwards for at least 30 feet, while its width was a little more than half that.

John lay close by, on his back, almost completely submerged. The water was only about an inch away from his face, ready to give him a rude awakening. Not wanting to wait, Sherlock kicked a wave of water towards him. John awoke with a splash.

Sherlock turned his back on John’s indignant coughing, already wading toward the other side of the tank. He crouched to examine a spout where fresh water flowed in from a fist-sized pipe. _Not very original_. He retrieved his coat and tried stuffing a sleeve in the pipe. The pressure of the water just pushed it out again. Even if he could block the water, it would be counter-productive to their escape. He looked up, double checking that there was no sort of lid across the tank.

“Sherlock.”

…It might take a while, given the rate at which the water was flowing, but no matter.

“Sherlock.”

...An hour. Two at most. He was hardly a strong swimmer, but he could manage. He stood still for a moment, staring down at his trousers, watching the water line move slowly up his leg…

…until a splash from John created a small tidal wave that broke his concentration. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock turned to find John still sitting in the water, eyes wide, looking panicked. “If you can’t swim, you’ll have plenty of time to learn, I’m afraid.”

John raised his arm, which had previously been submerged. A chain rattled, preventing the limb from surfacing very far above the water. 

Time froze and Sherlock could only stare as water fell from the shiny metal of the chain--drip, drip, drip--creating ripples in the water that distorted their reflections. With a blink of his eyes, Sherlock snapped back to real time. “Check your pockets. Remove everything.”

***

As Sherlock waded over towards the far wall, John checked his pockets. He still had his wallet, but all of his usual cards and identification were missing. Instead, he had two plastic ID cards which he had never seen before. The pictures on them bore a slight resemblance to John, if he squinted.

John watched Sherlock pause at every step to examine the cement floor, the glass wall, to look up at the ceiling. John kept waiting for the ‘Eureka’ moment, but it never came. Sherlock spent a long minute kneeling by the pipe, testing the water pressure. John looked away. The water now covered his lap. “The water’s warm,” he commented to Sherlock, needing to break the silence.

“And what does that mean?”

John rolled his eyes. Now wasn’t the time for Sherlock to be giving him a lesson on his observational skills. “We’re in some place that has running hot water?”

“I meant about our captor.”

John shook his head. He really didn’t want to do anything unless it involved freeing his hand.

“It means he doesn’t want the cold to numb me.” Sherlock turned, but didn’t look at John. “He thinks I’ll suffer more if I can feel.”

“And what about me?” John asked, indignant.

“Just collateral damage, I’m afraid. If you weren’t here, there’d probably be a lid on this fishbowl.” Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes, his back rigid as he stared at the far wall above John’s head for a moment before letting his eyes drift downward. 

It was John’s turn to look away.

John didn’t have much experience with drowning victims, but he did know that cold water could slow the process, make it easier for a person to be revived even after half an half hour, if the temperature were cold enough. But he didn’t feel he should mention that to Sherlock. Sherlock probably already knew, and saying it out loud would just twist the knife deeper into both of them.

Sherlock sloshed over to kneel next to John and he examined the cuff and chain for the first time, fingers dancing underwater to feel where the chain bolted to the cement floor. Then he looked at John’s wallet, the identification cards, and finally John’s watch, which sadly didn’t appear to be waterproof.

John watched Sherlock take in all the details like a sponge, cataloguing them. But this problem seemed to go far beyond the help of a brilliant mind. No matter what information Sherlock could gather about their soon-to-be killer, their location, the temperature of the fucking water…none of it would help. As John watched Sherlock’s expressionless face, he knew he was right.

No words were needed as Sherlock sat down next to him with a grimace, the water reaching their navels. “You don’t happen to wear grips in your hair, do you?” Sherlock asked after a few minutes. Another inch. 

John didn’t bother to dignify his question with an answer.

“There has to be something I’m missing.” Sherlock cast his eyes about the bare tank.

“It’s okay,” John said, grabbing at Sherlock’s sleeve as Sherlock started to stand.

Sherlock shook John’s grip free. “It is _not_ okay!” he hissed.

John swallowed. “Well, what do we have so far?”

“We’re in an old aquarium building. Hasn’t been used in a while. Probably a former holding tank for sick sea lions. The person who put us here is already long gone. Maybe he’s left a camera or two so he can watch all this over a bucket of popcorn. He doesn’t want your b--…you…to be ID’ed, so he planted fake cards, probably stolen from the post, plastic so they survive the water. And there has to be a way to save you.”

John closed his open mouth, then latched on to the first thing he could gather from the deductions. “Sea lions?”

“There’s a faint smell of fish and a peculiar medicine used to treat them. Probably years since this place was in use, but it is still quite discernible.”

“How do you know there’s a way to save me?”

Sherlock turned away, but John could still read the thought that flashed over his face: _Because the best way to make me suffer would be to know I could have saved you_. But out loud Sherlock said, “One of the easiest locks to pick. Everything I need is probably right here.” 

“What about my watch? Can it be taken apart?” Even though the water was warm, he still shivered as it slowly rose up his chest.

Sherlock shook his head. “I took your watch apart a month ago. There’s nothing useful there.”

Normally John would have chastised Sherlock about taking apart his things without permission, but the water felt heavy against his chest, fear giving it weight, and the watch seemed so unimportant in comparison. 

John had never really had a fear of water, but he had had a bad dream or three about drowning, especially after the war. The water had always held him back in his dreams, kept him from reaching his friends who bled out on the shore just out of reach. Their looks still haunted him. “S-Sherlock.” The tickling of the water as it reached his neck brought him back to the present and John tried to keep from panicking. 

Sherlock walked carefully, keeping his movements slow to keep the water from splashing against John’s face, and crouched down in front of him. The look on his face made John hate himself, no matter that it wasn’t John’s fault. Sherlock’s calm façade was starting to crumble.

John started to speak, but Sherlock ducked under the water to examine the cuff once more. He felt pain at his wrist as Sherlock tugged the chain and he wondered if Sherlock planned to rip his arm free. John could just catch the water-distorted look of determination on Sherlock’s face as he examined everything. Then John had to stop looking down in order to keep his face above water. He closed his eyes, trying to will his thoughts someplace serene, but water brushing his lips shattered those thoughts. “Sherlock!” He swung at Sherlock to get his attention, hitting him on the shoulder.

Sherlock broke the surface of the water, the movement causing water to splash over John’s face.

“It’s okay.” John could do no more than mouth the words, his voice catching in his throat like it was checking out early, knowing it would never be needed again. But John knew Sherlock had caught the meaning by the way he violently shook his head and found John’s free hand in the water. He wanted to tell Sherlock to turn away, to not watch him die. But it was too late for words any more as the water covered his lips. He felt crushing pressure in his hand and wondered what Sherlock would have to hold onto when he was gone.

John tilted his head back, creating what little distance he could between nose and water. Water plugged his ears, muting the sound of Sherlock’s heavy breaths, but amplifying the sound of his own heart. It soothed him, much like a young babe fresh out of the womb. He frowned up at the grey ceiling. If he squinted, the light fixtures almost looked like clouds. He would never see the sky again.

Water in his eyes. Tears. Not drowning. Not yet.

John tried to school himself for what he was going to do when the water finally covered his face. No need to prolong his suffering. A breath in of water and be done with it. 

_Coward_. The voice in his head sounded more like Sherlock’s than his own. 

_It’s better this way_ , John answered.

_For who?_

_Both of us._

John took a deep breath…

…And held it as the water covered him completely.


	2. Chapter 2

John had to blink several times to bring Sherlock into focus through the thin layer of water. Sherlock seemed frozen, still gripping John’s hand and John imagined Sherlock holding that same position forever as the water rose to consume him as well. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, hard, needing his best friend to snap out of it, trying to save Sherlock’s life once more. This time from himself.

Sherlock jumped into action as if John had found a secret power switch. He was down in the water in front of John so fast that John lost half his held breath in fright. Then Sherlock’s lips were on his own, covering them. 

John opened his mouth, not able to refuse Sherlock anything, not even… _air_? There was no mistaking it; Sherlock had just forced a cautious breath of air into his mouth. 

Sherlock pulled away, looking intently into John’s eyes, as though needing a confirmation that he was on the right track to solving one of his puzzles. 

No sooner had John nodded than Sherlock stood to draw in another breath. So close, yet so far away. If John wanted, he could reach out his hand and touch the air. But Sherlock was bringing air to him, so he had no need to reach.

The second time Sherlock knelt in front of him, John stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. John then breathed out before motioning him close. Sherlock understood at once and the next time he waited for John to clear his lungs of the stale air.

The fit of their lips was clumsy at first, all wrong angles and leaked water. But they got better the seventh time. The tenth time. By the sixteenth time, Sherlock had to stretch to reach the surface, the next he finally had to swim. 

John felt light-headed and he started to see black spots at somewhere around the twenty-fifth time. The mouthful of recycled air just wasn’t enough, and he could see Sherlock struggling as well. The man barely paused for his own lungful air before he swam back to John, his usual single-minded determination keeping him going, making up for his not-so-refined swimming technique.

John could no longer see the ceiling or even the surface of the water. His vision had been condensed and pinpointed to Sherlock, his whole world darkening with every litre of water that poured into the massive tank. He missed the light, craved it like a junkie. Sherlock’s small belt buckle shone with what light there was, and John watched it like a tracking device.

As Sherlock twisted, the light caught on the buckle, and the sharp flash hurt John’s eyes. But even when he closed them, the image burned. John felt his blood pressure rise, like his body was trying to tell him something held captive by his mind.

It wasn’t until Sherlock had returned and begun to swim off again that John realised it; the simple solution that had quite literally been staring him in the face for the last half hour. The next time Sherlock came back, John refused the air, instead tugging at Sherlock’s waistband.

Sherlock tried to brush the hand away, but John persisted, finally shoving Sherlock back so he could point to his trapped hand, then to the belt. Waiting for it to register felt like the longest wait of his life, but when Sherlock got it, he sprung into motion. Hastily, he passed the last breath of air to John, then darted for the surface, hands already wrestling with his belt, trying to pull it free from his sodden trousers.

John’s heart throbbed in his chest as he watched the struggle over his head between man and object before man won out and Sherlock swam back down, belt clutched in one hand, reaching for the lock with the other. John draped an arm over Sherlock’s back to hold him steady.

Sherlock’s hands shook as he separated the prong of the buckle away from the frame. The light barely reached them, and Sherlock missed the small hole in the lock several times. 

John needed air, it was taking too bloody long. But he dared not move. Dared not beg for his next fix of air. He just closed his eyes, concentrating on not breathing. Then a strange feeling came over him, that falling feeling he sometimes got when in a state of half-sleep. He opened his eyes to see the surface of the water falling towards him. No, he was rising.

His lungs cried out for air, like they realised just how close they were to being finally filled. A split second too soon. His first breath came just as he breached the surface and contained more water than air. He coughed, not able to get a breath. 

“John!”

Panic started to overtake him as he struggled to clear his lungs, his grip on Sherlock the only thing keeping him from sinking.

Sherlock swung him around, knocking his back against the side of the tank.

The move rattled his teeth and banged his head on the glass, but it made him able to cough up the rest of the water. The air hurt his throat when he could finally breathe again, but it was a good type of hurt.

“Your face was turning purple.” The tremor in Sherlock’s voice betrayed how scared he had been.

John felt Sherlock’s bruising grip on his arms loosen a second before Sherlock’s eyes rolled back and he started to sink. John caught him, the weight almost pulling them both under. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock was only out for a moment, eyes fluttering back open. “Sorry.”

John didn’t feel safe letting go of him. Sherlock had barely had time to take a full breath for himself in the last half hour. He looked exhausted. 

They both looked up and John groaned at the impossibly large distance the water still had to rise. They spent the next few minutes in silence, breathing deeply as if to make up for lost time. 

“Where did you learn to swim?” John finally asked, needing to hear something aside from the sounds of their breaths and the slight ringing in his ears.

“Mycroft threw me into the deep end of our neighbour’s pool when I was nine.”

John started to laugh, but caught himself when he saw the look in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Just after mother died. He became fed up with me. At the time, I don’t think he cared whether I sank or swam.”

“You can’t think that!”

“Mycroft was 16. I was annoying.”

“But you learned how to swim,” John pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. “I would have learned eventually. There were two identification cards in your wallet, right?” Sherlock had changed subjects without pausing for breath. 

Before John could catch up, Sherlock had already dived back under the water. “Here, hold this for me,” he said upon his return, pushing his sodden coat at John and rooting around in John’s wallet, which he had also retrieved from the floor of the tank. He pulled out the ID cards and discarded the wallet. “I know who did this. And his next target.” He looked upwards. The edge of the tank was closer now, but still way too far to escape from any time soon.

“Well?” John demanded.

“The identification cards. Two names. Clifford Cedars, and Richmond Kew. Cedars, Kew, Clifford, Richmond. All are streets that circle the Chedwealth Community School.”

John felt his stomach sink. “Someone’s targeting a school?” he said with growing horror.

Sherlock nodded gravely. “Remember our bomber from a few months ago?”

“Mr. ...Braxley?”

“He used to work there. As a chemistry teacher. He was fired after having one row too many with the other teachers.”

John was still stuck on the target being a school. “What if we’re too late?”

“We’ll have about half an hour. The final detail: Two different cards. Two different names. But the addresses are the same. 330 King’s Road. Three-thirty. My watch still works.” He showed John. “Just past two-thirty. We have an hour. And about thirty minutes until the water reaches high enough to get out.”

The water no longer felt warm and John shivered. _I’m never setting foot in water again,_ he silently vowed to himself. _Baths be damned_!

“When we get out, we’ll need to find someone with a mobile. Call Lestrade. He’ll get through the needed…” Sherlock stopped.

It wasn’t like Sherlock to leave a thought unvoiced when he was on a roll, and John looked at him with concern.

Sherlock stared at the wall, his hand resting against it. 

“Sherlock?” After getting no answer, John watched Sherlock’s hand, finally realising what he was seeing: The water level had stopped rising. And it had started falling.

Only about five feet separated them from the top of the tank, but it might as well have been fifty. John could feel the seconds they were wasting weighing down his body, threatening to pull him to the bottom of the tank.

Sherlock punched his fist into the water in a rare show of frustration. He turned to John. “Can I stand on your shoulders?”

John nodded. “Ready?” At Sherlock’s signal, John swam under Sherlock’s long legs. He felt a bit of panic, his previous close brush with drowning still fresh. The pressure on his shoulders hurt. With the added water weight, Sherlock felt like he weighed twenty stone. John wasn’t sure if he would be able to lift him out of the water. But desperation gave him strength.

Sherlock, for his part, stretched and grabbed hold of the edge as quick as he could, pulling himself up to straddle it. “My coat, John. Hurry.”

John wanted to argue, wanted to order Sherlock to leave. But that would be a waste of breath. He had learned long ago that arguing was never in his best interests. John grabbed the coat, which had started to slip under the surface, and tossed it up. The water made it heavy and it just slapped against the side of the tank a full foot from Sherlock’s reaching hand. 

The second time, Sherlock caught the sleeve. He adjusted his grip to hold the end of the coat. “Grab the sleeves. Hurry, while you can still reach.”

John gave the coat a dubious look, but reached for it anyways. He almost lost the grip as his arm muscles protested and his old war wound ached at the new strain. John gritted his teeth. With Sherlock’s help, managed to reach the edge and pull himself on it to join his friend. “I need new friends,” he gasped.

The edge was about a foot wide and John straddled it carefully, feeling more than a little tipsy, and looked around. There were other similar tanks in the room, five in total. They were permanently set into the floor, so the ground was only about ten feet below them. Underneath must be an viewing room of sorts.

Sherlock tossed his coat down first, then dropped easily to the ground, landing in a crouch, then straightened. He looked up expectantly at John.

 _School. Explosion. Right_. John’s landing wasn’t so graceful. The shock of the hard floor on his stockinged feet made him stumble into Sherlock, almost knocking them both to the ground. 

Sherlock pushed dripping hair from his eyes. He ran towards the nearest door, leaving his sodden coat behind. John hurried to catch up. The door opened into a hallway, which the two followed to a pair of double doors that led outside. Here, Sherlock stopped. He gave the doors a suspicious look, then carefully pushed one open.

Nothing blew up and John followed Sherlock out into the street.

What a sight the two of them must have made; clothes dripping puddles all over the walk, shoeless, squinting against the sun. But no one paid any attention to them.

John was about to politely ask someone for their mobile when Sherlock pushed past him, snatching a phone right from an older woman’s hand. The woman didn’t notice at first that her phone had vanished; then she stared at her hand in surprise.

“She’ll call you back later,” Sherlock said into the phone, ending the call and starting one of his own. “Lestrade. Evacuate the Chedwealth Community School. There’s a bomb. No time to call a disposal team. Twenty minutes. Never mind, just do it!” He handed the mobile back to the lady, who seemed equally surprised by its reappearance as she had by its disappearance. 

Sherlock started to walk away.

“Now what?” John asked.

“We go home.”

“Home? What about the bomber?”

“In good time, John. In good time.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Hudson was out. For that, John breathed a sigh of relief as he followed Sherlock upstairs to their flat. He really didn’t feel up to explaining how he had spent his afternoon, which included jumping the gates at the tube station. Well, Sherlock had jumped them and John had kissed his dignity goodbye and crawled underneath. “Not a word,” he had told an amused Sherlock.

Despite his newfound hatred of water, John took a quick shower, letting the water warm his chilled and chafed skin. When he entered the living room, feeling relaxed and ready to fall down and sleep for a week, he found Sherlock perched on his chair in front of the television. 

Sherlock rested his chin on the tip of the remote. He had changed his clothes and had made some small attempt at running his fingers through his hair.

John joined Sherlock, wanting to see what had caught his undivided attention. A news reporter stood in front of the Chedwealth Community School. Behind him, windows were blown out and smoke was heavy in the air. 

“No casualties.” John read the bottom of the screen with relief. “There’s a bit of good news, eh, Sherlock?”

Sherlock gave no reaction.

John recognized the far-off look on Sherlock’s face and didn’t bother with any further attempts at conversation. He needed time to process the last few hours himself. But before he could collapse on the couch, the doorbell rang. John groaned and changed directions, heading back downstairs to answer it.

A bored delivery person shoved a small box and a clipboard at him.

John signed for it, barely finishing the ‘n’ in his last name before the clipboard was snatched from his hands and the man was gone. John turned the box over in his hands. 221B Baker was written in ink across the top.

Sherlock was as he had left him and John tossed the box into his lap. 

“Expecting a package?” John asked, finally getting to sit down in his chair and holding back a groan of contentment.

Sherlock looked down at the box, picking it up with more care than John had tossed it. He gave it a small shake, sniffed it, then brought it up to his ear. It rang. Sherlock jerked the box away from his face, startled. Then he smiled, as if amused by his gut reaction, and opened the box.

John caught the object Sherlock tossed his way. “My mobile?”

“Mine, too.” Sherlock’s fingers clicked away at the keys. “Text message. ‘Up for a bit of sport?’ ” he read. “ ’Meet me, 1hr. A. B.’ ” Sherlock stood.

“You’re going?”

“Of course. Stay if you’d like.”

He would very much like. Yet he still stood and followed Sherlock towards the stairs, grabbing some money off the table for cab fare. No unauthorized tube ride this time. He started to go for the drawer that held his gun, but remembered it had been on him that morning and whoever had drugged them still had it. He doubted it would be delivered to their door in a second package any time soon.

“Drop us as close to Chedwealth Community School as you can get,” Sherlock told the driver.

John didn’t argue with the directions, but he did argue the wisdom of not telling Lestrade, or anyone else, where they were going. “I don’t like this.”

Sherlock ignored his protest, watching out the window as the occasional emergency vehicle sped by. 

The cab dropped them off about a block away from the school. John paid the man, then hurried to catch up with Sherlock as he made a large loop around the site of the bomb blast. John could hear Lestrade ordering his team about and the knowledge that he was close took the edge off his worry. He followed Sherlock towards another freestanding building. “Where are we?” He had to speak up to be heard over the sirens.

“The sports hall.” Sherlock stopped at the door, checking over his shoulder before opening it a crack and slipping through. 

The door led directly to the gymnasium floor. A single bank of lights down the middle of the basketball court bisected the darkness with a strip of light.

Sherlock didn’t seem to be holding any of the fear that John did about stepping into the light, being on display for whatever lurked in the darkness.

“I _really_ don’t like this,” John repeated, sensing eyes on him, his neck prickling. His fingers itched and he wished he had his gun. He didn’t want to play any more games.

There was movement to their right and a basketball came out from the shadows, making its way lazily towards them, part bounce, part roll. Sherlock sidestepped away from it, narrowing his eyes at the direction it had come from. 

Footsteps to their left. Sherlock turned, while John was more reluctant to turn his back on whoever might have tossed the ball.

A man appeared from the darkness. He had on a business suit, padded at the elbows. Expensive, custom made. His tie was a matching steel grey. He seemed to take great pleasure in the noise his expensive shoes made with every step. John instantly recognized him as Braxley. “Boys enjoy your swim?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” Sherlock answered, as casual as though answering a question about the weather.

“Shame. Maybe you’ll enjoy the encore. But first, someone I’d like you to meet.”

From the opposite side of the court, where the ball had come from, another man stepped out into the light, just as immaculately dressed as Braxley.

Sherlock smiled without humour. “And the dead shall walk.”

“Hell was full.” Moriarty. “Hi.”

Against his better judgement, John turned his back on Braxley, and stared, mouth falling open, but words failing him. Sherlock had said he’d seen Moriarty die, had seen the blood spread across the concrete, had seen brain matter floating in it before he’d had to look away. Even though the body had vanished from the rooftop, leaving behind only a dried stain of blood, John had never doubted the maniac was dead. Until now.

“So it was you all along,” Sherlock said, jaw tense.

When Moriarty spoke, it was to Braxley, not Sherlock. “And you didn’t think they would notice the belt.” He tutted.

“You had a camera on us,” Sherlock commented.

“It was very touching. Award-worthy, even. But sequels are never as good as their predecessors.” Moriarty glanced over to Sherlock before addressing Braxley once more. “Shall we prove that wrong as well?”

“I’d love to,” Braxley answered as Sherlock and John quickly turned back towards him. He loosened his tie and removed his suit jacket. Then he reached into the pocket before tossing the jacket aside.

John tensed. But Sherlock remained calm and poised. Though that had also been Sherlock’s reaction to having a gun pointed at his head, so John couldn’t quite relax yet.

As the jacket fell, it revealed that Braxley now held a syringe, the needle glinting in the dim light. 

Now Sherlock did tense, if only a fraction. “Do you plan to try and drug us again? Toss us in another tank?”

“I’m just a touch more imaginative than that. No offence,” he added with a slight bow toward Moriarty. “This is not your everyday sedative.” Braxley held up the syringe, looking at John even though he was speaking to Sherlock, “This here’s special. Something I’ve been working on for a while.” His grin was predatory, and John felt ice in his veins. “This will send hellfire running through you. Then you die.” 

Moriarty clapped suddenly, the sound loud and echoing in the gymnasium. 

John jumped, the sound so similar to gunfire that he almost dove to the ground. Even Sherlock appeared startled at the reminder there was a fourth person in the room.

Braxley picked that moment to charge not at Sherlock, but at John.

John recovered from the noise and braced himself, calling on what he remembered of his hand-to-hand combat training. But Sherlock side-tackled Braxley before John could do more than take a step backwards in preparation.

As soon as the men landed on the ground, Sherlock danced away from the wild swing of the syringe and he placed himself between Braxley and John.

“You’ve got yourself a guard dog,” Moriarty commented.

Braxley rose back to his feet and pulled the wrinkles out of his shirt. Then he charged again, this time at Sherlock.

Sherlock caught the man’s wrist with both hands, halting the downward plummet of the needle.

Braxley had the syringe gripped in his fist, the same way one would wield a knife, but he quickly opened his hand, dropping his grip to two fingers. The new position allowed a bit more movement, which he used to his advantage by scratching Sherlock across the back of his hand. 

It all happened so fast. Too fast.

Sherlock twisted away, changing the direction of the needle’s path while kicking Braxley in the knee. John could hear the snap of a broken bone as Braxley went down. He didn’t get up again. 

John approached cautiously, then gave him a kick over. The needle had stabbed him high in the chest, the plunger depressing in the fall. A trail of foamy spittle tinged with red fell from Braxley’s lips as he gasped and wheezed for air.

Braxley’s mouth twitched up in an attempt at a smile, then he lay still.

“They don’t make minions like they used to.”

John spun around. He had forgotten about Moriarty. 

“Pity. He could have been someone great. Had his flaws, though.” Moriarty wrinkled his nose as he looked at Braxley. “But he served his purpose, didn’t he, Sherlock?”

As if on cue, Sherlock fell to his knees.

John rushed to crouch at Sherlock’s side. He heard Moriarty laugh, but when he looked up, the man was gone.

“What do you think, doctor?” Sherlock held up his hand for inspection.

The back of his hand had already started to swell, the angry red scratch becoming lost in puffy tissue. Sweat dotted Sherlock’s brow.

John swore. Thankful that their phones had been returned to them, John quickly dialled 999 for an ambulance. Sherlock was unsteady, even on his knees, and John pulled him to lean against his shoulder, needing to keep the hand lower than his heart. “Stay with me.” He wanted to wrap a tourniquet around Sherlock’s arm, but without knowing what type of poison ran through his veins, it could do more harm than good.

“My fault,” Sherlock chastised himself. “Got careless.”

“You saved my life. A few times, actually. Ta for that.”

“Pressure’s on you t’return the favour, then.” His words slurred.

John swallowed down his panic. “How do you feel?”

“Sick.”

John gave him a small nudge with his shoulder. “Speak to me as if I were an idiot.”

Sherlock huffed a little laugh. “Skin’s tight. Was throbbing, ’s stopped now. Heat everywhere. Feverish. Head...dull.” He leaned his head back against John’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Muscles hurt.”

“Now tell me the good news.”

John caught the ghost of a smile before it slipped away. 

Sherlock swallowed and cracked open his eyes, squinting like the lights hurt them. “Still breathing.”

John heard the sound of sirens. 

“Ah, more good news,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Shall we try for a hat-trick and have a happy ending?”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

John shook him, while simultaneously calling out to the med team he could hear at the entrance.

Sherlock mumbled something that John couldn’t quite make out and then there were people and Sherlock was being moved to a stretcher.

John’s ears rang as Sherlock was pulled away from him. He thought he said something about poison and syringe and hurry and don’t die.

“Are you okay, sir?”

“Sod me, save Sherlock.”

“Your friend is already on the way to the hospital.”

John looked around. A sandy-haired man checked Braxley’s body, while the other man knelt by John’s side. John could still see red spittle shining against Braxley’s lips. His eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. John turned and vomited on the nice man’s shoes. He didn’t remember much after that, except that he got his own ride in a second ambulance.

***

When John came to, he could hear beeping from a heart monitor nearby. The rush of the last 24 hours hit him like a shot of adrenaline and he sat up so fast he got dizzy and fell back against the pillows with a groan. He rolled his head to the side. Another bed rested against the far wall, and John could just make out a shock of dark curly hair against the white sheets.

John sat up, carefully this time. He realised he was in a temporary cot. Had to have been the work of Lestrade to get him in the same room and for that he was grateful. He walked the short distance to Sherlock’s bedside and dropped into a chair.

Sherlock’s injured hand had a thick bandage wrapped around it. His usually pale face had even less colour than normal.

“Took you long enough to wake up.” His voice was no more than a whisper. 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.” John scolded.

“One hears interesting things when people don’t think you can hear them.”

“You can gossip about the nursing staff later.”

The conversation was obviously taking a lot out of Sherlock and he sighed, eyes drifting closed. He blinked them back open with a little difficulty. “John. Managed the hat-trick.” 

John watched Sherlock fall asleep, a smile on his face.


End file.
